The Light, the Tunnel

Today was the Viernes de Dolores, or the Friday of pain, translated literally; it’s the Friday before the Friday before Easter, when hardcore Catholics make alters to the Virgin Mary of Sorrows.  Although I was raised Catholic, I never studied the Bible – this shit is pretty crazy.  Mary’s sorrows were serious, definitely surpassing most of the grievances I hear from modern parents: 1) Your son is going to be circumcised. Okay, that’s not the end of the world -- unless you’re French. . . but it gets worse.  2) You’re going to have to flee your home to escape the guys who want to murder your son.  Lame.  3) You’re going to accidentally lose your son on a trip to Jerusalem.  A worrisome nuisance, even though you find him again. . . 4) You’re going to meet your son and he will be bleeding from some radical headwear.  He will also be bearing a cross. 5) Remember that cross?  Your son will be crucified upon it.  6) Your son will be removed from the cross and placed in your arms.  7) Time to bury him. 

 

All of Guanajuato -- a conservative Catholic town where drivers adorn their cabs with religious iconography, men cross themselves before sleeping with their mistresses, and only scandalous women, university students and gringas wear shorts – alighted with alters to Mary and her sorrows  last night.  The arteries that carry tourists and Guanajuatenses throughout the city’s multitude of winding cobblestone streets and mysterious callejones -- delivering them to cultural events and family gatherings -- become clogged with vendors selling tacos (of course), but also flowers from the surrounding countryside, and plastic egg-shaped novelties from China.  The flowers were originally meant to decorate the alters to Mary and her sorrows (remember?) but somehow the tradition has transmuted into one in which drunk teenagers use peer pressure to sell flowers to anyone they perceive as being a couple.  Girls wear their shortest miniskirts -- strictly forbidden on any other day of the year -- in anticipation of the dances that take place on the night of Viernes de Dolores.  I don’t really get the dancing part – aren’t we supposed to be meditating on pain?  Anyway, I can’t remember the last time I was antagonized by a 15 year old. . . oh wait, I did almost get into a fight with some kids in my neighborhood recently.  Nevermind.  Teenagers are a nightmare, the world around.   At least some things are consistent.

 

Anyway, it’s interesting how traditions change and are arguably bastardized as they travel through space and time.  One could say the same about yoga, or Chinese cooking. . . not that I’m such a traditionalist, but I do think it’s interesting how people make things their own.  I suppose the same could be said for me, here in my annual retreat location in Central Mexico – maintaining my late dinners and adherence to green foods.  Fortunately my friend Hugo is no stranger to unconventional ways of being – he did live in Portland for 15 years – and we tend to see eye to eye about things. 

I’ve spent most of this week up high -- in my head, writing stories; and sitting on the roof of Alma del Sol, my home in the center of Guanajuato -- soaking up the mountain sunshine and listening to the operatic clatter of traffic and taco making in the streets below.  I go out when the sun begins to set, making my rounds at the track or going in search of dinner in a pleasantly lit room.  I avoid the crowds, the main roads, finding beauty and inspiration in the periphery.